"drug of choice"

my daddy
never took a drink
in his life
but was,
never-the-less,
constantly drunk.
and like any addict
worth his ilk,
drug his children along
on his hazy, besotted ride.


church.
the whispered hallelujahs,
the ghostly images
hiding in the stained glass
(of course no one
ever saw them
but me),
the inebriated hymns
sprayed with slurred speech
all haunt me
to this day.


addiction,
no matter the substance,
is still abuse.


camp meetings
were the worst.
one-hundred fifty
punch-drunk believers
drinking scripture
in the middle
of nowhere --
the devil lurking
among the crickets
just passed the tent flaps --
were enough
to scare any fifth-grader
into the arms
of a sweaty lush
dying to plunge him
beneath an icy lake.


to my surprise,
i survived
(finding rehab
in the bottle,
the word,
and the moon)...
but i still watch
my daddy,
and hundreds of thousands
just like him
drive aimlessly
in circles,
and appreciate 
what he tried to do
for me,
but his
just wasn't
my drug
of choice.